


brittle bones to break the fall

by eternalmyriadofstars



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Underfell (Undertale), Babybones (Undertale), Big Brother Sans (Undertale), Child Abuse, Gaster Blaster Sans (Undertale), Gen, I'm so sorry, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Non-Linear Narrative, Underfell Papyrus Being a Good Brother, W. D. Gaster Being An Asshole, Younger Brother Papyrus (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29587770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternalmyriadofstars/pseuds/eternalmyriadofstars
Summary: "The first time Gaster hits you is right after you awake for the very first time. You blink awake to the sight of cold, sterile lights above you and are promptly backhanded across the face.'You are SN-5,' comes the cold, dispassionate voice from somewhere off to your right. 'You are my experiment, and you will do exactly as I say. Get up.'"Sans is Gaster’s first successful experiment on creating an artificial soul, for a given definition of “success”. Unloved and unwanted by his creator, he finds a brother in the Royal Scientist’s son, Papyrus, who has his own scars courtesy of his father. Together, the two of them must navigate the dangers of the Underground – and that of the man they call Gaster. For even ghosts have ways of haunting us, and memories don’t just die.
Relationships: Papyrus & Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. white-crippled wings beating the sky

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [life's a game, life's a joke--fuck it, why not go for broke?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232009) by [cashtastrophe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cashtastrophe/pseuds/cashtastrophe). 



> Alright, so first I want to say sorry to anyone who read/commented on the first version of this story. I have decided to revamp it, and change the POV from 3rd to 2nd person. This was done because 3rd seemed too stiff for the story, and 2nd is my favorite POV.
> 
> I have no excuses for this fic. It’s based off cashtastrophe’s life’s a game, life’s a joke--fuck it, why not go for broke?. I highly recommend that one, if you don’t mind a super dark story – the writing’s excellent. However, while reading it I couldn’t help but think: what if Papyrus _wasn’t_ a complete and utter asshole?
> 
> Thus, this was born. A fic started almost three years ago, and recently revamped, with more written in the past three months than I’d gotten in over two years. I guess a POV change was all I needed.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Abuse/child abuse, general Underfell violence, underaged drinking, suspected domestic abuse, dismemberment, Gaster being an asshole

[Sixteen / Twenty-one]

You’ve heard the tales. Heard the evidence, situational as it often is: children who were abused often grow up to be abusers themselves. You also know most of that is just myth. People don’t always grow up wrong, don’t always turn into their parents.

You think about it, sometimes, lying awake on the lumpy couch and staring up at the myriad cracks in the ceiling. You try to imagine Papyrus turning into his father, try to picture him purposefully hurting a kid of his own, or even yourself.

Fail.

You never tell Papyrus of your thoughts on this. No need to scare the kid, give him useless thoughts that will probably (definitely) never happen.

Turns out you don’t need to.

\---

It happens one evening after school: Gaster is late coming home from work, as is the norm these days. You don’t mind it, not in the slightest. It just gives the two of you more peace.

Papyrus went directly up to his room after he came home, didn’t talk to you much. Just scowled and muttered something about homework. You didn’t really think anything of it at the time; it’s not been the first time Papyrus has come home in a mood, nor the first time he’s ignored you.

You should have payed better attention.

It’s only when you don’t receive a reply to your call for dinner that you begin to grow worried. Papyrus usually scrambles to eat, his teenager’s metabolism craving food like air. He never misses the opportunity, especially not now in the increasingly often times it’s just the two of you.

You give it five minutes before you begin your slow trudge up the stairs, gripping onto the railing to steady yourself – today’s been an off day, balance-wise. You hate days like this.

The sight that greets you when you creak open your brother’s room is definitely not one you expected. You figured Papyrus was just consumed by his homework, or possibly just lying in bed, scowling up at the ceiling.

Not this.

Thing is, Papyrus hasn’t cried since he was six, when Gaster finally had enough of his son’s tears and pounded them out of him while you listened in the next room over with a bottle of whiskey, forbidden from interfering on the threat of making it even worse. Yet here he is at sixteen, drunk half out of his mind and sobbing into a half-empty beer bottle, at least five more strewn him in a manner more reminiscent of yourself.

“pap?” you call in surprise and not a little alarm. Papyrus looks up, tear tracks streaming down his face. He takes one look at you and promptly throws himself into your arms. You just manage to catch him, barely keeping your balance with the aid of your tail.

“pap? wh-what is it, what’s wrong?” 

And Papyrus is off, wailing about how he’s horrible, he’s going to turn into Gaster and you shouldn’t even be near him right now. It takes some time, but you finally manage to glean what happened. Papyrus lost his temper today, punched another kid in the face so hard they lost a tooth. The kid had apparently bad-mouthed you, called you a freak and a mutt.

You try hard to ignore the warm, pleased feeling curling around your soul.

“pap,” you say, pushing Papyrus away so you can see his face. It’s not hard; the kid doesn’t put up a good fight while drunk.

“papyrus,” you try again, and the rare use of his full name has Papyrus’s hazy eyelights meeting your own. “l-listen to me. you’re not gaster. you’ll _n-never_ be gaster.”

“BUT WHAT IF I AM,” Papyrus whispers, and the sound breaks your damaged soul. “HOW CAN YOU EVEN STAND TO BE NEAR ME SANS, I COULD TURN ON YOU, I COULD… I COULD…”

 _I COULD KILL YOU,_ he doesn’t say. You try not to think about it, try not to think about Papyrus being the one to snuff out your pathetic life.

Try not to think about how you would probably let him.

“listen to me,” you repeat, cupping his face with only slightly shaking phalanges. “you’re. not. him. you are so goddamned much _more_ than him. you are _good,_ the best fucking thing in this shithole, and you’ll never change that much. i know you’ll never hurt me because you _can’t._ ”

Papyrus’s sockets overflow once more and you draw him back into another hug. You’ll have to clean up later, hide the evidence before Gaster gets home or there’ll be hell to pay. But for now you just comfort your kid, bringing your tail up to wrap around him like you’re trying to hide him from the world.

Maybe you are.

\---

[Twenty-one / Twenty-six]

It happens one day when you’re waiting for Papyrus’s training to be over. See, there aren’t many kind monsters in the Underground. You know this the way you know the ever-present ache of your head, where your magic digs into your skull like the particularly ill-fitting chest plate Papyrus once tried to get you to wear.

Gerson, however? Gerson is a monster from Before. Before the war, Before you were all trapped down here to die.

Before Asgore went mad and installed the mindset of “kill-or-be-killed”.

The old turtle studies you with narrowed eyes. Studies the way you shrink in his sight, like an echo flower wilting in Hotland’s dry air. Studies the way you can’t stop shaking, the way your tail twitches a constant staccato against the ground, the way you won’t meet anyone’s eyes.

Studies the collar buckled around your neck.

He’s silent, and it makes you more nervous than if he shouted.

~~At least it’s familiar.~~

Finally he speaks in a low, croaking voice that sounds as if the old man is going to just keel right over at any point. “You know, son,” he begins, and you stiffen at the word.

_wrong wrong wrong i’m no one’s son i’m nothing-_

“If you’d like, I can help you.”

You just sort of. Stare. Because declarations of help aside (and why does the guy even feel the need to offer it in the first place, that’s what you want to know), what do you need in the way of help anyway? Help with _what?_

The old geezer continues, and you immediately wish he didn’t. Wish he just kept his ancient mouth shut.

“I can get you away from your brother.”

And you freeze, because what? Why would you need to get away from Papyrus?

But Gerson’s not finished. “Listen son,” he says in a voice that would be calming if it weren’t so fucking _confusing._ “I know the signs. I can see it in your eyes, in your manner of holding yourself. In that stars-forsaken _collar._ ” He spits the word like it’s a particularly vile insult, and your hands automatically go up to twine in the thick leather at your throat. “And I know the two of you likely came from a less-than-ideal place, but that is no excuse for the way he treats you.”

Shock is beginning to calm the trembling of your bones now. Because you’re finally beginning to figure out where Gerson’s going with this, and you don’t like it.

Not one bit.

“b-boss doesn’t _abuse_ me,” you say in an incredulous voice. It’s all you can do not to add a bewildered _what the fuck?_ because you’re an idiot, sure, Gaster made it a point to drill that into you from the very beginning, but you’re not suicidal thank-you-very-much. You know better than to piss off a monster who could probably still hold his own against _Asgore._

Gerson’s eyes go soft and sad at the declaration, and you clench a shaking fist because he’s wrong. The bastard doesn’t know _anything,_ doesn’t know you or Papyrus or what you’ve been through, how dare he presume to know a single goddamn thing?

“Son…”

“l-listen,” you say, _snarl,_ and maybe you are suicidal after all. “boss isn’t his f-father okay? he’s not, and i w-won’t just stand here and let ya _say_ that about him!”

Gerson blinks at your proclamation, obviously startled by the vehemence in your tone, shaky and stuttering as it was. He opens his mouth once more – probably to protest, you think, tail lashing around your ankles – but is cut off by the sound of approaching footsteps.

“SANS!”

And normally Papyrus’s voice would settle your nerves, would ease the perpetual knot of anxiety curling in your belly. But the thought of Papyrus overhearing your little conversation – or Stars forbid, Gerson actually _confronting_ your baby brother – only serves to make you tense up even more.

You glance over your shoulder. Papyrus is striding toward you, mouth set in a grim line. So his Royal Guard training didn’t go so well today.

His eyes are narrowed at how close Gerson is to you. He knows who the old veteran is, of course – General Gerson, hero of the War and Undyne’s adoptive father – but it’s obvious he doesn’t trust the monster.

That’s okay. You’re not sure you trust him either.

Papyrus’s gaze sweeps over you, and his mouth tightens even further. So he noticed your discomfort. He raises his eyes to Gerson and dips his head in a nod. “HELLO, GENERAL,” he says coolly, stepping close to lay a hand on your shoulder. You relax ever so slightly at the touch.

Gerson nods back. “Hello, Sentry Papyrus,” he replies, voice just as cool. “I was just having a chat with your brother here.”

“IS THAT SO?” Papyrus shoots you a questioning look, and you can’t stop your eyelights from skittering away from his face. His hands tightens on your shoulder. You don’t miss the way Gerson’s eyes go straight to the gesture.

“Yes.”

“WELL, I AM AFRAID WE MUST TAKE OUR LEAVE NOW. IT WAS NICE TALKING WITH YOU, GENERAL.” Papyrus’s tone indicates it was anything but.

Gerson pauses, but dips his head in acquiescence.

You and Papyrus are just turning to leave when that ancient voice speaks up once more. “Sans?”

You stiffen but turn anyway, clenching your fists in preparation for his next words. “y-yes?”

“My offer still stands. If you ever need anything, anything at all, I’ll be here.”

Your claws are digging into your palms now, dust flaking from your hand, but you force yourself to nod.

Papyrus questions you at home, of course he does. He’s too astute to miss your heightened anxiety. But you refuse to tell him what happened between you and Gerson. He’s already stressed over his position as Royal Guard trainee; there’s no way you can tell him about Gerson’s suspicions.

Because you know he has dreams, sometimes, nightmares of becoming just like his father. And if you can’t protect him from those, the least you can do is protect him from this. So you give your brother a shaky smile and pull up a particularly horrible pun from the recess of your mind, prompting him to screech in dismay.

But Papyrus’s gaze is still sharp, and you know you didn’t manage to distract him entirely.

(And if he’s particularly affectionate tonight, gently scratching his claws against your skull as you watch MTT tv, well. You don’t say anything.)

\---

[Twenty-seven / Thirty-two]

There aren’t many abuse cases that make it to the Royal Guard. Not that there’s a dearth of abuse – Stars no, you can attest to _that_ much – it’s just that no one really cares. Few look twice at randomly appearing injuries, or someone scolding another in a tone that’s just this edge of too sharp. Because it’s kill or be killed down here, and monsters can’t afford to care about others.

So the few cases that do make it to the Guard tend to be especially bad, and usually involving children. See, kids are a bit of a rarity in the Underground, and as such are as protected as one can get down here.

Not that that stopped Gaster, but you digress.

Point is, when the Guard investigates a case of a child having been abused, it’s normally really bad. Never-get-over-it bad.

~~Like you.~~

Turns out, that one kid? The lizard with no arms? Well, apparently they weren’t born that way.

When you find out, you want to be sick. Because who would _do_ such a thing?

(You studiously ignore all the times Gaster removed your own limbs during the early years of your life. That time is better off forgotten.)

When Papyrus makes it home from his meeting with Undyne, he is in a particularly foul mood. And you can’t blame him, normally wouldn’t try and intervene, except.

Except.

You _know_ Papyrus. Know him better than he knows himself, and you know he’s currently stuck in his own spiraling thoughts at the moment. That he’s remembering his own abuse at the hands of his father.

(And some dark part of you thinks Gaster’s lucky he’s already dead, because Papyrus isn’t a babybones anymore. He has power now, and the training to back it up, and you, well.

You always would do anything for Pap.)

So you take one look at Papyrus and pull him into a hug. Let him give a shudder that shakes his entire body. Let him break.

“it’s o-okay boss,” you whisper soothingly, running a shaking hand up and down his trembling spine. “l-let it all out.”

And Papyrus does, breaking down into great ugly sobs, all heaving ribcage and snotty magic. You allow him to grieve for the poor child whose only transgression was being born into the wrong family.

When Papyrus is finished, he speaks. “THE DOGI ARE TAKING THEM IN,” he says, voice steady as ever even under the quiet hoarseness. “THEY HAVE ALREADY KILLED THE PARENTS. THEY WILL RAISE THE CHILD.”

It’s a good choice. “d-dogamy and dogaressa are g-good,” you say in what you can only hope is a soothing tone. “they’ll t-take care of the k-kid.”

Papyrus nods into your shoulder. “I ONLY WISH THEY DIDN’T HAVE TO.” He tightens his grip around you. “IT’S JUST… SEEING THEM LIKE THAT, IT REMINDS ME OF…”

 _OF HIM,_ you hear. _OF WHAT HE USED TO DO, TO BOTH ME AND YOU._

And you can’t have that, now can you? So you only shush Papyrus, pulling him closer into your arms, and wrap your tail around you both. You remain that way for the rest of the night.


	2. weight of loneliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait, I keep forgetting to post this! Not much to say except enjoy!
> 
> Warnings: Abuse, child abuse, vague mentions of rape/non-con (non-explicit)

[Fourteen / Nineteen]

You have no idea how you’re even alive, sometimes. You’re probably not supposed to be. You know – have always known – that you’re a bit of an accident, know you’re more than a bit of a disappointment, what with your stunted growth and strange proportions.

Your legs are too short. You’ve thought about it many a time before, how they’re likely more suited to a quadrupedal gait than that of a biped. You’ve wondered if you would be better off walking on all fours. But you refuse. You’re already treated like a dog by everyone but Pap; the last shredded remnants of your pride refuse to make your status as household pet even more blatant.

You refuse to give Gaster that pleasure.

As for your balance, well. The less said about _that_ the better. Most of the time it’s really not so bad, balancing on your feet and claws like a particularly gruesome human ballerina, especially with the aid of your tail.

But sometimes you spend the entire day tripping over your own feet. Have to walk at the edges of the room, using the walls for balance and stumbling whenever you’re forced into the center. End up leaning on Papyrus whenever the kid’s home, which never fails to bring a sour taste to your mouth. He’s far too important to be reduced to a living crunch, despite never once complaining about the indignity.

And the tail. Oh man, the tail. On good days, it’s just sort of an ever-present ache in the back of your mind. Annoying, but bearable, easily ignored.

But the bad days… The bad days, it’s all you can do to roll off the lumpy couch. Pain shoots through your spine with every step you take, and you have to constantly stop and just breathe. Papyrus hates these days almost as much as you do. He never has liked seeing you in pain.

(He pulled on it once, when he was little. He was only five at the time and curious about his new brother’s extra appendage. You never did blame him for it.

Unfortunately for you, it was a bad day. Pain seemed to lance through you with every breath, and Papyrus’s exuberant tug was just too much. You ended up passing out, scaring your charge half to death and pissing Gaster off. You slept outside that night, the cold numbing the pain and the sound of tiny fists beating against the window lulling you to sleep.

Papyrus never pulled on your tail again.)

Of course, Gaster seems to take extra delight in making your bad days even more miserable, giving you the worst chores and punishing you when you inevitably take too long or get something wrong. His face splits into this cruel grin, too, like it’s _funny,_ watching you struggle. To him, it probably is.

As Papyrus grows older, he starts fighting against his father’s cruelty toward your pain in a way he never does for himself. He fights against his father’s treatment of you in general, but this in particular seems to spark rebellion in him.

You confront him about it one day, after he pissed off Gaster a little too much. You’re cleaning up his bruises and slowly oozing marrow, just as Gaster ordered you. Not that you would refuse. If you were ever to refuse an order from him, it certainly wouldn’t be patching Papyrus up.

“p-pap,” you begin sternly, hissing through your teeth as you stretch a little too far for comfort. Papyrus looks down at you with sad eyes, despite the nasty bruise stretching over his right eye. He’s already taller than you, but you don’t mind. Anything that makes him appear more intimidating in this hellhole is fine by you.

You shake your head when he offers you the warm rag. “n-no,” you say. “you’re the one injured r-right now.”

“BUT SANS,” Papyrus says. “YOU’RE IN PAIN, TOO. MORE, EVEN.”

You wave a dismissive hand. “that doesn’t m-matter,” you dismiss. “i’m not the one black and b-blue.”

Papyrus shoots you a surprisingly fierce glare. “LIKE _HELL_ IT DOESN’T MATTER,” he snaps. “YOU ALWAYS SAY THAT! YOU’RE HURTING TODAY, SANS, AND HE _KNOWS_ IT. THAT’S WHY HE MAKES YOU DO ALL THAT STUFF; HE JUST WANTS YOU TO SUFFER!”

“pap,” you say. “of c-course that’s the r-reason.”

“THEN WHY WON’T YOU _DO_ ANYTHING ABOUT IT?”

Ah. So that’s what’s wrong. You had hoped to have this particular conversation later – or not at all, if you had any say in the matter. Not that you ever had any say in things, but still.

You hiss out a sigh. “i’m d-don’t have much of a ch-choice, pap,” you tell him, not without a touch of bitterness. “i’m just his p-pet; i don’t get-”

“DON’T. YOU. _DARE,_ ” Papyrus growls, low in his throat, and you startle. You have never heard that tone, not from him, and for a split second a wave of fear sweeps over you like a waterfall.

It must show on your face, because Papyrus’s transforms from stormy to horrified in an instant. “SANS,” he gasps, reaching out to touch the side of your skull. “I- STARS, I’M-”

You grab his hand. “it’s o-okay, pap, i’m fine. you just st-startled me, that’s all.”

Still, the horror doesn’t fade.

“r-really, pap,” you continue. “you know i could n-never be scared of you.”

“I KNOW,” Papyrus replies automatically, like he has hundreds of times after Gaster’s particularly bad punishments, when you can’t stop trembling at everything. But this time he doesn’t sound as sure as you would like, and you can’t let that stand.

“wh-what was that even about, a-anyway?” you promp in an attempt to take his mind off your irrational fear.

It doesn’t quite work, but Papyrus huffs anyway, likely humoring you. “YOU ARE NOT A PET,” he says forcefully.

You blink. “what?”

“I SAID, YOU ARE NOT A _PET!_ ” he repeats, louder this time, and you wince in anticipation of Gaster overhearing. Papyrus lowers his voice as he continues. “THE WAY FATHER TREATS YOU IS HORRIBLE, AND JUST PLAIN WRONG! YOU ARE _NOT_ HIS PET, YOU ARE MY _BROTHER,_ AND I WISH HE WOULD ACT LIKE IT!”

Your expression softens. You think you understand now. “is that why ya keep g-getting into those arguments? pap, y-you’re not going to change his m-mind, no matter how much you b-backtalk him.”

Papyrus’s jaw sets into a hard line. “I KNOW,” he mutters angrily. “BUT I AM NOT GOING TO STOP.”

“p-pap-”

“HE _HURTS_ YOU, SANS! EVERY DAY, EVERY _NIGHT,_ HE _HURTS_ YOU!”

You flinch the reminder. Papyrus notices, because he gets that horrified look again. You’re beginning to really hate it.

“SORRY,” he says, sockets wide. “I- SHIT, I’M SORRY.”

“it’s o-okay.” You shake your head in an attempt to clear away the unpleasantness. “but p-pap, you really can’t be d-doing this. he’s gonna really h-hurt you one of these days, and then where will i b-be?”

Papyrus looks stunned, like he never considered it before. You have, more than you’d like to admit. Because without Papyrus, you have nothing. _Are_ nothing. Anything Gaster did to you would be a blessing compared to life without your babybones brother.

Life without Papyrus...

The thought terrifies you.

Papyrus takes a deep breath. “ALRIGHT,” he says. “I WILL STOP BEING SO PERSISTENT. BUT I WILL NOT STOP DEFENDING YOU ALTOGETHER. NOT IF IT TAKES SOME OF HIS ANGER OFF YOU.”

And of course that’s his angle. Piss off his father enough that his fury is directed toward Papyrus instead of you.

A lump forms in your throat as you grab your rag and continue patching him up. Fuck, what did you do to deserve a brother like this?

When you’re finished, Papyrus leans down to engulf you in a hug. “LOVE YOU,” he whispers against the side of your skull.

You’re too choked up to answer, so you just wrap your tail around his ankle and squeeze him back with all your meager strength.

\---

[Twenty-seven / Thirty-two]

Footsteps sound outside the clearing outside Undyne’s home. She doesn’t turn around to face the would-be intruder; there’s no need, not at this one.

She would know the sound of those boots anywhere.

“Report,” she says instead, baring her teeth at the possessed dummy currently getting their ass kicked. The dummy doesn’t make a sound.

The footsteps come to a halt, then there’s the sharp clack of heels and the snap of gloved bone to bone.

“CAPTAIN,” comes the voice of her second-in-command. Undyne glances over her shoulder, and there he is, smartly saluting like they haven’t known each other for a near decade now. His eyes meet hers for half a second before focusing somewhere near her gills.

So it’s going to be like this, huh.

“Papyrus,” Undyne greets. She punches the dummy once more for good measure, sending stuffing flying everywhere, before straightening and turning to face her subordinate.

She knew he was there before, of course. He knew she knew. Neither of them mention it.

“SIR, THE SNOWDIN GUARD IS DOING WELL,” Papyrus says in that crisp speech of his. Distantly, Undyne wonders where he picked it up; that’s more Hotland-slash-Capital speak than Snowdin, and he’s lived in the latter all his life, at least to her knowledge.

“NO HUMANS HAVE BEEN SPOTTED BY THE GUARD OR SENTRIES,” he continues, jolting her out other thoughts.

Undyne nods to cover her momentary lapse in attention and gestures him closer. He goes without question.

“Good, Lieutenant. Now, come here and give your Captain a _real_ workout.”

Papyrus summons a bone at the same time she summons a spear. _Good,_ Undyne thinks in satisfaction before she darts forward.

The match is swift, and she comes out victorious as always. It wasn’t even a close match, not like the bi-annual evaluations overseen by the King. He was distracted, as he always is when he’s at her house. She would accuse him of throwing the spar if she didn’t know the real reason for his distraction.

Somehow, it always comes back to _you._

Undyne grimaces slightly, as usual when her thoughts trail to you. Papyrus must notice because he frowns, but doesn’t comment on it. Which is probably for the best.

Undyne is not sure she wants to see how he would react if he knew her distaste for you.

She invites him inside, as she always does after a spar. As per the norm, Papyrus hesitates a split second before agreeing and following her through the gaping maw of her home.

Undyne serves them both sea tea, barely tasting the salty drink as she gulps it down. Papyrus only grimaces slightly, barely suppressing a shudder. Pride wells up within Undyne at the tension visible in his shoulders as he fights the shiver down.

He’s getting better at controlling his reactions.

“So,” she begins, allowing her teeth to go on full display in what she knows to be a razor-sharp grin. She’s practiced it in the mirror enough times. “How are you?”

“FINE,” Papyrus replies, relaxing infinitesimally now that they’re out of reach of prying eyes. “AND YOU, UNDYNE?”

Affection wells up this time, battling the pride at the rare use of her name. Out of everyone, only a select few have ever called her that. “Eh, I’m alright. Bit overworked right now, but that’s normal, what with the new recruits.”

Papyrus nods as his fingers begin to drum on the table. “GOOD.” It’s genuine, Undyne can tell, but it doesn’t stop the drumming of his claws against wood, or what it means.

Papyrus is growing restless already, and Undyne knows exactly who’s to blame.

The thing is, she doesn’t _hate_ you, per se. It’s just that she doesn’t particularly _like_ you, either. You creep her out, what with the permanent rictus grin and the shuffle-walk and that goddamned _tail_ that just doesn’t look natural on your monster type.

But Papyrus? He doesn’t share her reservations. He loves you. _Dotes_ on you. Were Undyne the type of monster to admit to jealousy, she would say she was jealous at the way you can coax that constant line of tension from his shoulders, a tension she can’t so much as touch, for all that they’re friends.

A tension she can see right now, in the way he hasn’t completely relaxed in her presence, despite them being out of reach of prying eyes.

“ _I TRUST YOU,_ ” he told her once, when they were younger and full of ambition. And she believed him. Still believes him.

Maybe that’s why the sound of his drumming fingers, a clear sign of nervous tension, hurts so much.

But no, that’s stupid. She knows why he’s so tense; it has nothing to do with lack of trust, with fear for his own safety. Because Undyne knows her best friend, and she knows he is constantly fretting over your low HP, over whether or not you’re safe out there alone. You are his one weakness, Undyne knows this. Just as she knows his fear of finding your dust one of these days.

She’s seen how he reacts when you’re so much as threatened, how he lets his guard down to show the furious, frankly terrifying side of him. Stars forbid you actually get yourself dusted.

Undyne’s not sure what Papyrus would do if he lost his creepy older brother. Quite frankly, she’s not sure she wants to know.

Papyrus loves you, more than anything. And Undyne is not jealous of this, she’s _not._

She just hopes you realize what exactly it means.


End file.
